Yoga travels back to see his creator, his sacred mother, but he more frequently roams the western world spinning beautiful tornados, leaving yogi dust wherever he touches down. He is magic, but unlike Santa Claus he cannot cover the entire globe in just one night. It has taken him 100 years of travel to create the frenzy that had touched so many lives today.
His mother is proud of course, but like any mother she is concerned. Does Yoga remember his homeland? Does he remember his teachers? Has he got caught up in the glitz and glam? So, she calls him in Sanskrit, coaxes him with the smell of incense, and then with the promise of sweet milky chai he arrives home to be fed by his mother.
Yoga understands he lives a life of dualities. He speak different languages in different tones depending on his audience. Sometimes he questions his own motives, his own direction, but he knows, at his core, his work is good.
Still, Yoga needs his mother to whisper softly to him, to remind him about why the stillness in the middle of his tornado is so important. She reminds him that everyone he has gathered up in his whirlwind makes him stronger but that they are only pieces.
Yoga learns from every moment, every interaction, and yes, this makes him stronger. Better. But like all of us, without his mother he would be nothing.
So only with his mother’s love, with her blessing, he will continue on his path. Eventually, his tornado will open up to the purest of the sun’s rays and we can all discover what we have joined him in his search for.